Seeing Them Without Your Eyes

The afternoon light is flat, and in this long middle, the fear arrives quietly: that every time you reach for their face, you are sanding it down a little more. That the voice you love is fading because you are trying so hard to hold it.

You are not eroding them by remembering. You are wearing yourself out trying to keep a ghost still.

The light does not ask you to preserve the past like a museum piece. It lives in the present, in the space between your breaths right now.

There is a love that does not depend on the clarity of a mental image. A connection that survives the blurring of details.

The face may soften. The voice may change.

But the light that held you together then is the same light holding you now. You are not losing them to the fog.

You are learning to see them without your eyes.